#UK regulations

[thebeautyscientist]

Global VOC Regulations in Cosmetic Products: Rationale and Practicalities

Volatile Organic Compounds (VOCs) are a large group of organic chemicals that have high vapour pressure at room temperature. This characteristic allows them to evaporate easily into the atmosphere, contributing to air pollution and potentially causing health issues. VOCs are found in many everyday products, including cosmetics, paints, and cleaning agents. In the context of cosmetic products,…

[aiolegalservices]

Comprehensive Anti-Money Laundering Services for Businesses and Governments

Money laundering is a serious issue that affects businesses and governments around the world. It is the practice of disguising the proceeds of illegal activities as legitimate funds, which enables criminals to benefit from their unlawful activities without being detected. Therefore, it is crucial for businesses and governments to have effective anti-money laundering measures in place to combat…

[secondjulia]

Necessary but Stupid -> The StarvingArtist!Dream/Plasma AU You Didn't Request

UM. So. This was definitely just a weird little AU idea I had... definitely not while hooked up at csl daydreaming about Dream & Hob... that I was just going to dump in @gabessquishytum's Ask, as one does with weird little AU ideas. And then it kind of exploded. Into an actual story.

---Rated: G. Logistics in the tags. Ao3 link ---

There's no stopping the dark cloud that passes over Hob's head the moment he opens the door to the plasma center. But now he can smile brightly through it and let the storm blow quietly away. The dark memories this place holds still surface every time he walks in, but he's never once considered not going. Even though it's been ten years since Eleanor and the babe died of some rare blood condition that triggered childbirth complications, Hob's still there twice a week, every week, rain or shine.

He waves to the clerk at the desk. The security guard greets him with a comment about the latest football match, and Hob makes an appropriately pained, commiserating expression. He asks the technician taking his blood pressure how his honeymoon went — Côte d'Albâtre, right? — and Hob reminisces cheerily about his own trips to France.

Nobody’s ever exactly happy at the plasma center, but the sunny professor’s relentlessly friendly chatter brightens everyone’s day. All the staff know him by name, his surprisingly colorful stories can help pass the time on those long-line days, and his smile always lights up the room. 

Sure, Hob can be kind of opinionated — like whenever he declares that death is stupid and nobody should have to die of preventable diseases! Everyone just goes along with it, and it’s so cruel! (Nobody actually disagrees, but he is very vocal about it.) The first time he said this — sitting hunched with downcast eyes, just weeks after his wife’s death — his voice was soft with hopelessness, and it cracked as he held back tears. But ten years later, when people ask him why he’s still doing this when he’s a tenured professor with a summer cottage and a retirement plan, Hob declares jovially that death is stupid! Nobody has to die when he can give them something they need from his own arms — it’s a renewable resource! 

Hob, it cannot be said enough, brightens everyone's day — usually.

But not today. Not everyone's.

Dream cannot believe the insufferable words coming out of this man’s mouth. It's the first day Dream’s set foot in this particular center, and he already wants to go home. 

But home is the problem. Dream's new apartment is much cheaper than the building that just evicted him, but this latest series of paintings are taking far longer to complete than he'd hoped. And also, the art world just fucking sucks. Dream can't fool himself. Even when the paintings are ready, it's unlikely they'll sell well enough or soon enough to plug the gaps in his income. 

For years, Dream played the whole shitty-jobs roulette to support his art, but ever since he was kidnapped and spent years in a glass cage in a basement, he can’t even manage that. Seriously, try explaining that kind of resumé gap to a job interviewer. When he does manage to get work, it always goes bad fast. Dream wasn’t exactly totally undamaged before, but now he feels like he's all scars.

Dream is not here by choice. He cannot imagine who would be. 

He'd gone to his old plasma center for years — till he was forced to move — in order to make ends meet. Today, he's here to fill in the glaring gap between the meager payment he got for a small watercolor last January, his savings, and a near-maxed-out credit card. (Nearly maxed out in the hasty scramble to get to a cheaper place to live. Moving was expensive. Funny how that works.) The plasma center is, in some ways, far preferable to many of the jobs he's had in the past, and it allows Dream to spend more time on his art. But it is absolutely unfathomable how anybody could pursue an eternity of this if they didn’t have to. 

Dream keeps his head down avoiding the attention of the chatty professor. He stays quiet. His cold, bony hands are tucked into his long cardigan sleeves except for when he's chugging water, nearly by the gallon. He's about 2kg from the next weight class. Unfortunately, he's lost weight since his eviction, but if he could bump the scale a little higher, it would mean a higher draw — and a slightly higher payment. He's always cold these days, so the heavy sweater isn't a hardship, and the water fills up his stomach and supplements his inadequate lunch of oatmeal and stolen sugar packets.

The first time Dream meets Professor Hob’s eyes is when they’re sliding the needle into his arm and Dream has to turn his head away sharply. Dream was never afraid of needles — not until that night when someone (he later learned it was a twisted old cult leader named Burgess) stuck him with… something that knocked him out cold and he woke up in the basement. These days, although he's done this many times before, when the metal pricks his skin, Dream still lays frozen like an ice sculpture as his heart pounds against his chest.

He has sold his vintage leather jacket, his treasured collection of elegant handmade cloaks (there was a theatrical phase, it’s complicated), and most of his books (the shelves of his sparse apartment now hold only a few cheap volumes of blank paper for his sketches). But it wasn’t enough. 

Burgess was years ago, but Dream's life still lies in ruins.

He does not like being here. But it seems that this — his body's materials, his very essence — is the only thing of value he has to offer the world. This most basic biological function, the blood pumping through his veins, is all anyone wants of him now.

So despite his fear, he lets them bleed him.

Hob is usually quiet when he’s hooked up to the machine. He'll chat in the line and in the lobby and at the vitals check, but on the donation floor, he politely minds his own business. Here, everyone retreats into their own world, usually scrolling on their phone or staring at the clock. People don't usually feel like talking when they’ve got a needle in their arm. And Hob’s an extrovert, not an asshole. 

But today, the man beside him looks over, and Hob can’t wrench his eyes away. The man is thin and sheet white and his eyes are huge and watery over jutting cheekbones. His lips might be trembling.

“Alright there?” Hob asks kindly. 

The man’s head twitches. It might be a nod.

Hob has seen people pass out here before. With the way this guy looks, Hob’s mildly shocked that anyone thought it was a good idea to drain him of vital fluids. But the people here know their business. His numbers must be under control, or else he wouldn’t’ve been allowed in.

Still, under control doesn’t necessarily mean ok.

So Hob gently keeps the conversation going with the man. Dream, he learns and his heart flutters at the name. He weirdly doesn’t seem bothered by Hob’s donation floor chatter (maybe because he's too bothered by the needle in his arm to notice anything else). Dream doesn’t even pull out a phone. He seems to hang on Hob’s every word of small talk. 

“I can shut up if you’d life,” Hob offers when he realizes with a shock that he’s babbled through the entire first draw. “It just seemed like you needed some distraction.”

“Please.” Dream blushes slightly. Well, at least his skin is getting some blood. “Tell me about… your experiences. What… have you been doing?”

Huh? 

What has he been doing? That’s vague. 

But if anyone can find a way to fill a vague prompt, it’s Hob. So he chatters some more about the union organizing at his university and a ridiculous new scheduling system for the adjuncts — it’s like they’ve taken all the worst aspects of on-demand scheduling from the fast food industry and applied it to higher education for some incomprehensible reason. One of his colleagues had a class — and £2000 of pay — cancelled two days before term started. But not everything’s bad. Hob knows the students are planning a walkout next week, which he fully supports and has already adjusted his lessons to compensate for the lost time. Also, there’s a new pizza place on campus which is rather decent.

He really is just rambling. 

But Dream seems to need it. He hasn’t looked down at his arm once, and Hob’s certain that’s for the best.

Dream has to admit that the insufferable professor has made the time go by a lot quicker. He’s shocked when they’re sliding the needle out of his arm, then wrapping his elbow up, and he’s free to go. He mumbles what he hopes is a polite goodbye to Hob, who is also finishing up, and then practically stumbles out into the rain.

He clutches his cardigan around him and pulls up his hood and plods away from the center. This place is closer to the new apartment than his previous plasma center, but it’s still a half hour hike home. The buses take even longer — his crappy apartment isn't exactly on a convenient route. But at least walking saves him a few quid.

“Hey!” 

The voice makes Dream flinch. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a car slow down beside him, and his heart ratchets up in his chest. He doesn’t look over, only hunches deeper into his wet cardigan and walks faster.

“Hey, Dream!”

Oh.

Belatedly, Dream recognizes Hob’s voice. He finally looks up to see Hob looking out his car window and smiling despite the rain streaming onto his face.

“Looks like you could use a ride!” Hob jerks his head toward the passenger’s seat. “Hop in!”

Dream stares at the kindly professor. Who offers a stranger a ride in their car? Sure, Dream spent the last forty five minutes listening to every mundane detail of this guy's super normie professional life, but they still barely know each other! And if Hob actually knew Dream — a failed starving artist and all around fuckup, consistently two minutes away from homelessness — there’s no way he’d want to associate with him outside of the polite minimum of chatter at the center. 

So what the fuck is Hob playing at?

“Come on, you’ll get soaked!” Hob prods.

Fear strikes Dream, and he recoils, stumbling away from the vehicle.

“Dream? You alright there?”

But Dream is already running, tearing off through the rain. He cuts through a shitty neglected park, climbs a fence and gets chased by a rottweiler through a closed off parking lot, and dashes across a highway — almost getting hit twice.  He doesn’t stop running until he’s home.

Or, well, what passes for his home now. 

Dream dries off, makes some tea, and grabs a sketchbook. His hand shakes as he doodles, but the process calms him and grounds his mind. 

Then, as usual, after his fear begins to ebb, he feels stupid.

His mind replays the afternoon's events. Hob’s smile is brilliant in his memory. Though the initial snatches of overheard conversation were insufferable — not to mention incomprehensible — his recitation of the mundane details of life had been oddly calming. And, though Dream had perhaps not appreciated it in the moment, Hob had seemed genuinely concerned. 

The more Dream thinks about it, the stupider he feels. Worse, he feels ashamed. How rude to run from Hob, who’d only wanted to help! 

The scar tissue that has proliferated over Dream’s heart has truly damaged his ability to function among decent people. That night, he lays awake for a long time thinking about this. He should probably just never go back to the plasma center. He can’t imagine facing Hob after reacting so poorly to his kindness.

But the next day, after he scribbles up the month’s expenses and tries to make the math work, Dream realizes he has no choice. 

The day after that, he’s plodding back to the plasma center.

The feelings of shame are almost overwhelming, and Dream slouches in with his head lowered, shoulders hunched, and eyes averted from everyone. 

“Dream!” Hob’s voice is like a warm bubble bath. “Hope you got home alright.”

Dream can barely look at him, but Hob's smile is like a ray of sun on Dream’s face. There’s a cloud of concern shadowing his eyes, but he’s otherwise as cheery as ever.

“Forgive me. I…” Dream cannot explain. 

“Look, I’m sorry. I totally overstepped,” Hob says. “I know I can be a bit much, and I shouldn’t’ve pushed.”

Dream cannot believe that Hob is apologizing to him. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Hob said gingerly, “was that your first time? It’s just you didn’t seem particularly pleased with the whole process. I thought I’d likely never see you in here again.”

“It was not. I have done this…” Too many times to count. “…frequently.” Dream finds the prospect of explaining the complexity of his situation too daunting. But he is touched by Hob’s concern. “I do not enjoy the process.”

Hob makes a sympathetic noise.

“But I did enjoy…” Dream pauses. What the fuck is he doing? Hob’s been kind enough to overlook his rudeness; Dream should just shut up and leave him alone. But maybe Dream has been alone too long, been too long without a sympathetic ear, because he keeps on mumbling, “I enjoyed hearing about your university. With the union… and the pizza… and everything.”

Impossibly, Hob brightens even further. “I could take you! The pizza really is delicious—Oh, shit, sorry, I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” The cloud of concern is back as he takes in Dream’s downcast gaze. “I’m being too much. Sorry, I didn't mean to push!”

“No, not at all. It sounds lovely. I just…” Dream shifts awkwardly. “They don’t exactly pay us enough here for going out.”

“Oh, I’ll get it!" Hob says with a wave of his hand. "It’s no problem. I’d love to take you out. You looked like you could’ve used a good meal after that last one. Have you at least eaten something so far today?” Hob tries to keep the worry out of his voice so he doesn’t sound like a mother hen. All the instructional materials are very explicit about not donating on an empty stomach, but he knows that people do what they have to. 

“I have,” Dream says honestly. His lips twitch as he takes in Hob’s worried look. But Hob's smile, even suppressed, is a beautiful thing. “Really,” Dream stresses. “Oatmeal is cheap. I've had enough to be getting on with things. But later…”

“Great!” Hob’s heart flutters, but he stamps down the feeling. The memory of Dream running from him twists at his heart. He never wants to make him afraid again. 

On the donation floor, they're next to each other again. And again Hob chatters happily about whatever he can think of to keep Dream distracted. It all seems to go well until they emerge together into the parking lot and Hob notices Dream tense as he glances at Hob’s car.

“We can hop on the bus, if you prefer,” Hob says. “The campus is just down the main line, and I've got extra passes.”

Dream blushes, and his shoulders hunch like he's ashamed. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s nothing of the sort! It saves on gas and it's good for the planet!”

At the bus stop, Hob notices the way Dream’s gaze constantly flicks around his surroundings. Even when he looks down and hunches in on himself, his eyes remain alert, as if he's still hyperaware of every movement on his periphery. Hob wants so badly to reach out and comfort him and wipe away whatever has caused him to move through life with such fear, but he doesn't dare overstep. 

Hob is glad that the pizza place is in the bustling, well-lit central food court. Dream's body relaxes somewhat, and that specific tension which Hob had notice in the parking lot doesn't return. Hob buys him a giant slice of spinach, mushroom, and feta and a sealed bottle of water, and Dream even cracks a smile.

“I apologize for my behavior,” Dream says as they find seats at a plastic table in the middle of the food court. 

“No need," Hob says. "I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You were being kind, and I reacted… extremely.” Dream takes a deep breath and then a long sip of water.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Hob hastens to assure him, "about… whatever happened… if you don't want to."

Dream nods. He knows. Despite his annoyingly resurgent fear, he feels safe around Hob. So slowly, hesitantly, he begins to explain. 

It’s an abbreviated form of the story. Dream avoids the details of how Burgess thought he could siphon the life force from vibrant young adults. How he'd drawn a whole following into his delusion, even though he'd ultimately kept Dream for himself. How (Dream had learned later) Burgess had boasted about having a fresh young man, the font of youth, trapped in his basement — and no one had done anything, whether because he was just a rich eccentric who could get away with a "joke" like that or because he'd paid enough people off. He didn't tell Hob how the elder Burgess hadn't ever been held accountable because he'd died before any of it had come to light, and the younger Burgess had fallen into a coma. A care worker had ultimately taken a wrong turn, stumbled into the basement, and that was how the police were finally called to Fawney Rig. But since no one was alive (or conscious) for a big, thrilling trial, the entire ordeal just fizzled quietly into the background.

It’s not the whole story. But it's enough. 

Hob’s face grows progressively more horrified. He's abandoned his half-eaten pesto and prosciutto slice. It sits cold in front of him now. He feels sick.

“I make art,” Dream says into the silence. “It is not lucrative, but I can work when and how I wish. I have not… had a great deal of luck with traditional employment. Especially not since… those events.”

“Right. Of course." Hob's voice cracks over his words. For once, he's struggling to extract his usual chatter. "Can’t imagine anything’s easy after that.” 

Hob doesn't touch the remainder of his pizza, but Dream polishes his off. He looks oddly relaxed now, as if, in the telling, some of the weight of the horrifying story has slid from his body. 

“I’d love to see your art,” Hob says on the bus back to the plasma center parking lot. Belatedly, he cringes at the presumption, wondering if it's too much, knowing now that he really ought not to push his interest onto a bloody kidnap victim.

“I have a website,” Dream says, bringing it up on his phone and showing the address to Hob. Then he stands, though they're only about halfway back to the center. “This stop is closer to my home. I… Thank you. For the meal. And the kind ear. Perhaps… I will see you next Tuesday?”

“Of course,” Hob says, and a little bubble of happiness rises in his chest. “It’s Tuesday and Thursday for me until the schedule changes next term.”

Over the next few weeks, Hob isn’t always next to Dream on the donation floor. But he asks Dream to tell him about his latest project afterwards, so Dream has something to think about during the donation. And also so that it's not just Hob chattering away at their post-donation dinners. Which are happening regularly now. Sometimes they go for pizza, sometimes a good curry or a hefty shawarma; Hob introduces Dream to the pubs with the best (and biggest) burgers. He knows all the places to get a solid, filling dinner, not because he's concerned about getting his money's worth but because Hob just enjoys a good meal and he's more than happy to help put some meat on Dream's bones.

And get the artist to open up. 

Slowly, Dream begins to do just that.

It starts to seem like Dream feels safe with Hob. When they're out, he stands close to Hob, as if comforted by his presence. His shoulders begin to straighten out, and he hunches less when they're together. Dream's gaze is still alert, but it rarely sinks to the floor now, and his eyes don't flick fearfully around so much when he's with Hob. 

Three weeks after they meet, Dream lets Hob drive him home.

Two weeks after that, he invites Hob inside to see his current projects. 

Hob knew Dream was a good artist from the first glimpse at his website, but seeing the bright canvases in person is just stunning. The glistening abstractions echo the swirling galaxies and deep, black voids of the universe. The colors blend in fantastic points of light or unearthly flames or brilliant streaks across the sky. The textures — flattened out in the photos — give an impression of looking into entire worlds. The brushstrokes are mountain ranges and deep ocean trenches and shaded valleys where, somehow, Hob can imagine entire populations living and thriving within the fibers of the canvas.

"The, erm… the university has spaces for community exhibits," Hob says, struggling to bring himself out of the captivating images as if wading out of a dream. How appropriate. "I could look into that, see if you could do a show. Maybe the Art Department could have you in for a lecture, too — you could talk about the real-life challenges of being an artist, the actual work involved, the practical—" Oh no. He's being too much again. "I mean, of course, you don't have to! I won't say anything without—"

Dream's arms are around Hob's shoulders before Hob can even turn away from the canvas. His wild, dark hair is tucked against Hob's cheek as Dream tightens his grip.

Hob's hands slowly move to Dream's back. He can't speak for a long moment. Instead, his hands gently rub against the thin material of Dream's shirt. Hob can feel the edges of his spine and ribcage, but Dream also feels softer than Hob would've imagined the first time he saw him, pale and shaking, weeks ago.   

"Thank you," Dream murmurs. He steps back, and his gaze lowers, but now it's not filled with fear and sadness. He's smiling shyly. "If you could do that, I-I… would be grateful."

Hob can do that!

He's in Medieval History himself, but he's friends with half the Art History department due to overlapping lectures, the occasional historical consultation or spontaneous debate, and just being a friendly guy. And the Art History people know a few of the more curious, historically-aware Art people due to various collaborations and consultations on the evolution of modern styles and techniques and the socio-political contexts of artistic development. 

Hob, with his talent for striking up conversation, takes less than a week to find several interested parties. And once he shows them Dream's work, everyone is extremely eager to invite the talented local artist to campus!

The next time Hob walks into the plasma center, Dream is already beaming. His smile is bright enough to singlehandedly banish the residual storm cloud that always follows Hob over the threshold.

"I hit the next weight class," Dream says. He leans subtly into Hob's side.

"Good on you!" Hob says, beaming right back. When he tells Dream about the interest in his work, Dream's arm snakes around his waist for a subtle but firm half-hug.

At Dream's first show (he's already scheduled in with both the Art and Art History Departments — the latter wants to address the reality of artist's lives across time — and, hell, Hob's even lobbying his own History Department to get Dream in as part of a series on creative work throughout history), Hob is enamored with one canvas he hasn't seen before. From a distance it's a dark oil-slick abstraction with iridescent slashes of green and blue, but up close, Hob can see the feathery edges of wings.

He cannot explain the sudden, confusing wave of sorrow-joy-awe it provokes deep in his chest.

"Departed souls," Dream says softly, coming up behind Hob, "come back as ravens. Or so it is believed by some."

Hob sniffs and tries to control the itch in his eyes as he turns toward Dream. "Oh?"

"I painted this one soon after I regained my freedom. It felt like a part of me had not survived the imprisonment. It was… necessary, perhaps, to lose something in order to regain my life, but it hurt nonetheless."

"Oh." Hob doesn't know what else to say, but he reaches out, gingerly wrapping an arm around Dream, waiting for any hint of refusal, but Dream turns into him and clutches him tight, and Hob's arms tighten around him in turn. "It's beautiful," he finally says, his words muffled against Dream's hair. 

"I think now… maybe… some part of me that had not survived… has come back. In some form."

And Hob is gone. Tears leak down into Dream's hair. Hob clutches at him for support, but he can feel himself shaking, and now it's Dream rubbing soothing patterns into his back and tightening the embrace.

When they finally pull back, Dream wipes Hob's cheeks with his palm. He tilts his head in a silent question.

"Just… death," Hob says. "It's bloody stupid, isn't it? In all its forms. Necessary, maybe but stupid. I don't want any part of it."

Hob laughs at himself, as if the brash declaration itself is stupid. 

But Dream only nods; he can see that there are deep forces moving beneath Hob's usually cheery exterior. 

On the way home, he listens as Hob finally opens up about his wife and the unborn babe. After a decade, Hob says, the wound has closed up, he has "moved on" in all the ways one is supposed to move on, he has a new — and rather wonderful — life. But the scar will remain forever. It still hurts, but he's grateful for the life he had and the new one he's grown into.

"Shit," Hob says suddenly.

Dream looks around and realizes they haven't driven back to his own crappy apartment building. 

"Sorry." Hob wipes his eyes. "I've blabbered so much, I wasn't paying attention. Driven myself right home."

"It's alright," Dream says. He peeks over at Hob shyly. "I've never seen your place."

Hob blinks at him for a moment — Dream's heart thuds against his throat — and then, despite the tear tracks still drying on his cheeks, Hob's face breaks into a brilliant smile. 

"Are you hungry?" Hob asks. "I can actually cook quite well. It's not always pub food and pizza."

With perfect timing, Dream's stomach gives an almost painful rumble. "I'm starving."

Inside, Hob cooks a delectable dinner. Dream watches Hob move about the kitchen, chattering happily — he's already inviting Dream back over for brunch and maybe a Netflix marathon and Christmas. And Dream's mind is blossoming with new paintings, these ones bright with twining paths and colliding galaxies and shared dreams.

Hob is vaguely aware that he might be babbling into too much territory again, but when he sees Dream watching him with that dreamy sparkly in his eyes, his heart is just too full to care. As they eat together, he lets himself just be excited and not worry about reining himself in. Truly, he might not mind an eternity of this.

And Dream is thinking much the same thing.

[nostalgia-tblr]

i recently realised i've started automatically assuming online health warnings don't apply to me, based on how 90% of the tumblr ones are US-specific despite not saying that anywhere in the post. this doesn't seem ideal, so might i suggest labelling an alarming health-related post with what country or countries it applies to, in instances where it's not true everywhere?

[daftpatience]

i think when the shop reopens i'm finally gonna limit what countries i can ship to. auggg

[yumesei]

I've been eating up videos abt the (French) military those last few days for :

1 - make my selfship the most accurate as I can (I still give myself some liberties obviously but yeah the more accurate the better)

2 - it kinda feed my c.o.d hyperfixation too lmao

[just-about-nothing]

>moves to los angeles to be warm

>is still cold all the time

>ocean is cold. night is cold. inside is cold?? sometimes also outside is cold during the day (especially when i am awake and outside; not the warm parts of the day)

[guinevereslancelot]

my fancyyy snowdrops came today 😊❤️

[chainreactionpodcast]

In the News: Fashion Industry's Battle with Returns, US Economic Trends, and Key Automotive Recalls

In the latest episode of our podcast, we delve into some of the most pressing issues affecting various industries today. From the fashion industry’s battle against high return rates to the shifting economic trends in the US and significant automotive recalls, we cover it all. Let’s explore these topics in greater detail. Ever wondered how the fashion industry is managing the challenges posed by…

[coochiequeens]

The surrogate is a drug addict. But sure let surrogacy just be run like a regular business. Future consequences to the kids being created be damned. As long as adults who pay for a baby get what they want.

A 63-YEAR-OLD woman who is having a baby with her 26-year-old husband has revealed that the couple's surrogate is in jail.

Cheryl, who has 18 grandchildren, met husband Quran Mccain, when he was just 15 years old.

She insisted that nothing happened between them at the time, and eight years later, the couple met again and fell in live.

The husband and wife have had three failed surrogacy attempts but are now expecting a baby girl, which is due on December 27th.

Cheryl and Quran often share details of their unconventional relationship online, and in a recent TikTok video, shared a shocking statement about their surrogate.

"Our surrogate is incarcerated and now our baby has a second chance at life", Cheryl said.

In a second video, the couple shared a more detailed explanation.

The couple explained that their surrogate has a drug addiction, something that they were not aware of before they asked her to carry their baby.

Quran said: "It's not good that our baby is in this situation, because we weren't prepared for the circumstances that came with the surrogate we chose.

"We take accountability for that".

However, he added that the couple are glad that their surrogate is now in jail, as she won't be able to access any drugs that could harm the baby.

Quran said that he had no idea how bad the surrogate's drug problem was before she went to prison, or which drugs she had been taking.

Despite this shocking setback, the couple are optimistic about their baby's future.

Quran said: "I feel like God's going to cover us, and he's going to give us a healthy baby.

"We did get a surrogate who's going through tough times, but you know, we can't judge."

Addressing their followers he added: "Keep us in your prayers, because it's a crazy journey".

The video, which was posted under Cheryl's account @olivier6060, has likely left many people in shock, as it has racked up 1.5 million views on the video sharing platform.

TiKTok users raced the video's comments section to share their thoughts.

One person said: "Sorry to break it to you, but that baby isn't going to be healthy even if they look healthy.

"Take it from one drug baby to another."

A second person said: "This can’t be a legal surrogate. They wouldn’t qualify."

A third person added: "Who the hell did you get to be your surrogate?'

Previously discussing how excited she was to have another baby,  Cheryl, from Georgia, USA, told SNWS: "It was an amazing feeling to find out we were going to have a baby.

"We get to start our own family.

"I am the happiest now than I have ever been before."

Quran added: "I cried with tears of joy when I found out

"This will be my very first child.

"I have never felt love like this apart from the time I got married to Cheryl."

They were unaware that the woman the asked was a drug addict yet they must have picked up on she must have been struggling.

[aiolegalservices]

Experienced Anti-Money Laundering Services for Businesses and Individuals

Money laundering is a serious problem that affects businesses and governments around the world. The illegal activity of money laundering involves disguising the proceeds of criminal activity as legitimate funds. This practice allows criminals to benefit from their unlawful activities without attracting attention. It is, therefore, essential for businesses and governments to have adequate…

[mothmvn]

i wish i could feel like ukrainian language was truly something mine i wanted to reclaim. it'll never be 100% authentic or genuine; i'm a grown enough man to admit that i dont feel a drive to speak ukrainian over russian, i rather feel embarrassed to even bring up speaking russian in front of "proper" ukrainians who do feel this Ukrainian Desire to speak ukrainian or whatever, which is a hell of a way to feel about the place you grew up and the language you grew up speaking in that place. even though russian is just a fucking language, and has been passed from parent to child in my family for 3+ generations, NOT first and foremost from State to Servant. if i spit at russian the language, it doesn't land on russia, it lands on my grandparents, my parents, my aunties and uncles, my friends. and the rhetoric around adopting ukrainian is often abandoning russian, often with a lot of hatred and anger (duh), and i dont want my parents or grandparents to feel that im giving up the vessel they've only ever used to love me. i DON'T want to walk away from the tools they've always used to love me — i wish it were only bullies or putin and I could make it out to be a foreign aggressor language to me, but it's the fabric of my family and I'll never not love it in my mum's voice or in my grandma's letters. there's no closer language for me.

maybe ill switch at a time when it feels different, less high-stakes (especially because my family and non-family aunties and uncles to me — who are generally russian speakers — keep fucking dying lately). I recognise this is a me problem to therapise away. for now it just feels like a sad truth that i won't feel fully comfortable in UA until this gets resolved inside, because i dont want to stop speaking russian to start speaking ukrainian, but that's kinda how it shakes out, innit, if everyone (except me who is broken) discovers an innate Ukrainian Desire to switch to ukrainian.

I'll never be a truly native speaker in my home country again. that's a thought

[emiwuaidmslomc]

Bring back death note the musical pls I'm having withdrawals once again

[eaglesnick]

Second Rate Britain 3

Everyone knows that the predominantly foreign-owned water companies in the UK discharge millions of tonnes of untreated sewage into our national water system and onto our beaches, while issuing huge bonuses to their CEO's and massive profits to their shareholders. But, despite the catastrophic effect this has on our environment, we can at least avoiding nose-to-nose contact with human waste  if we refrain from swimming in our rivers or visiting the coast.

When it comes to the dangers lurking in our drinking water we have no such options, and according to some reports we are being slowly poisoned. In particular it is our children and developing foetuses who are most at risk.

“UK ‘flying blind’ on levels of toxic chemicals in tap water"  (Guardian 25/03/21)

British drinking water, like many water supplies across the world, is contaminated by a group of chemicals known collectively as PFAS.  They are also known as “forever chemicals” as they do not break down in the environment. These chemicals - over 4000 of them - have been linked to a number of illnesses:

 “...testicular cancer, thyroid disease, ulcerative colitis, high cholesterol and pregnancy-induced hypertension. PFOS has been associated with reproductive, developmental, liver, kidney, and thyroid disease. At lower levels PFAS have been associated with immunotoxicity." (Guardian 23/02/23)

These chemicals have been found in 17,000 sites across the UK. The Drinking Water Inspectorate’s guidelines state that at concentrations above 100 ng/1 water companies should take action to reduce PFAS before supplying water to people’s homes.  But the level of 100ng/l is below that recommended as safe in the EU.

“A BBC study found PFAS levels exceeded European safety levels in almost half of the samples taken. However, none exceeded the current safety level in England and Wales.” BBC News: 19/03/23)

I’m not sure that those who voted for leaving the EU really did so to allow the UK government to sanction dangerously high levels of contaminants in our drinking water. The EU safety standard is 2.2ng/l, the UK standard is 100ng/l, a level almost 50 times higher.

In Denmark, the level of permitted PFAs is even smaller than that for the EU.

 “…the Danish Environmental Protection Agency announced that drinking water must not contain more than maximum two nanograms per litre of the total sum of the following four PFAS substances: PFOA, PFOS, PFNA and PFHxS."  (tox.dhi.dk: 07/23/21)

In the US:

“The US Environmental Protection Agency has taken the extraordinary step of setting legal drinking water limits for six of the most studied and toxic PFAS compounds, known commonly as “forever chemicals”, that are at the center of an ongoing environmental crisis." (Guardian: 14/03/23)

In Britain the government has issued a paper titled “PFAS and Forever Chemicals" in which they state:

“Water companies have a duty to ensure water is wholesome. There are currently no statutory standards for PFAS in drinking water England and Wales.” (dwi.gov.uk : 2022)

Although the UK does not have “statutory standards” for PFAS in our drinking water, the Drinking Water Inspectorate did offer “guidelines” to the water companies. While scientists warn that allowable levels of toxic PFAS in UK drinking water are too high (BBC News:19/03/23) the Drinking Water Inspectorate says

“A few companies have detected traces of PFAS in some source waters, although the monitoring data shows the large majority of sources are not affected. Water supplies are made safe through a combination of treatment processes and managed dilution through blending, to achieve stringent regulatory standards, before reaching the consumers tap.” (dwi.gov.uk : 2022)

What this means is practice is that water companies are legally allowed to dilute the poisonous “forever" chemicals with uncontaminated water. They do not have to remove them. So, if the PFAS level was 200 nanograms per litre (200ng/I) and the water companies dilute the water so it is 100mg/l I now have to drink two glasses of water instead of one to poison myself as the chemical build up in the body is  accumulative.

If that were not bad enough, the UK government trusts the water companies to do the testing and “clean up” of these contaminants themselves. So the same companies that are illegally pumping millions of tonnes of untreated raw sewage into our rivers and seas are trusted to check for and dilute PSAF concentrations. And even when diluted to the UK governments recommended levels of acceptable contamination, those levels are 50 times higher than in many other countries.

We truly do have a poisonous government, a government that puts peoples health second to the profits of the water companies.

[vibin-in-the-void]

oh shit tumblr live has come to the uk oh fuck oh shit oh bloody fucking shit

[lizclipse]

not to be an advocate for the devil or anything, but how common is aflatoxin in the food supply? the guidance in the UK[1] doesn't mention washing, and the regulations i can find show 3ppb for the UK[2] and 20ppb for the US[3], are those levels risky still?

i'm mostly asking because... well i guess i'm curious? i rarely wash rice, so it's kinda selfish, but i also am not a fan of sensationalising food health since that kinda thing has a really bad history and can cause undue anxiety

im also kinda wanting to bring up the fact that, while advice like this should generally be followed if you can, it is not a hard-and-fast rule across legislative boundaries (the best example i can think of is that raw eggs are find here in the uk thanks to stricter regs). it's generally worth knowing how safe your food is, and pushing for regs where it's lacking

Dear people living on your own for the first time:

Here’s some advice I wasn’t told from the myriad of posts before that I wish I’d been given before

Wash the OUTSIDE of your pots and pans as well as the cooking surface. I’ve had a few roommates now who have only cleaned the inside and I’ve had to replace a $150 set of cookware twice.

“its only one time, how bad could using metal on nonstick cookware really be?” very bad. don’t do this.

Buy a rice cooker. Buy the middle tier rice cooker. Cheap ones will burn your rice, high tier ones are too expensive. Rice is good and cheap and, really, you don’t actually have to wash it if you don’t care about making gourmet food.

Buy band-aids. You don’t think you need band-ads until you need a band-aid, and by then it’s too late. (if you don’t follow this advice, a paper towel and some tape is an acceptable solution while you go get real bandages and neosporin)

You are on tumblr, which means you probably spend most of your time in one spot on a computer or phone. if this spot doesn’t have a trash can in arm’s reach, put one there.

 I spent 4 years piling trash on my desk in increasingly precarious ways until I had a designated area to put it. Trash cans can and should go anywhere there is a frequent generation of trash, typical locations be damned.

If you live with one or two roommates, discuss placing empty boxes in the back of your fridge and freezer. You probably don’t need all the space that the standard 5-person-family fridge provides, and tupperware will be shoved back there and left to stink up the entire appliance.

Get a wall calendar, put it somewhere communal, and have everyone put their household-relevant schedules on it. Communication is by far the weakest link with roommates (even good ones!) and having something to reference for appointments is always good